Dream On
by Baroness Kika
Summary: Panem AU; The nation of Panem isn't just a non-contender in most events of the Olympiad - they're a non-entity. Coach Haymitch Abernathy is tasked with pulling together a team of boys with two things in common: love of hockey and disdain for one another. But somehow, someway, Abernathy is determined to make these Games different...make them mean something. Banner by Ro Nordmann.


**_Disclaimer:_ _The Hunger Games_ belongs to Suzanne Collins, the movie _Miracle_ belongs to Disney, and the actual "Miracle on Ice" belongs to the 1980 US Olympic Hockey Team. I've simply borrowed elements of all three to tell the following story. Enjoy.**

* * *

_From the Treaty of Peace:_

_…And so it is decreed that every four years, the various nations of the remaining world will select and offer up in tribute young men prided with attributes such as poise, brute strength, agility, and athletic prowess to represent their nations in sporting games, hereby known as the Olympiad._

* * *

The rain falls heavy on Haymitch's umbrella as he saunters home from the train station. By the time he stamps into the mud room, he's using it exclusively for its named purpose—thick District Twelve coal mud coats the shoes he toes them off and kicks them into the corner to dry off, along with his trench coat and hat. He can smell something hearty and peppery on the stove, and the prospect of a simple home-cooked meal is a welcome respite from the over-processed, fluorescent food served to him in the Capitol.

When she hears him enter, his wife Maysilee turns to him with a lovely, expectant smile on her face. "So?" she says jubilantly. She wouldn't be his Maysi without that sanguine expression.

"Eh. I'm not their guy," Haymitch says with a shrug.

She narrows her eyes slightly. It's not unlike Haymitch to underestimate a situation, if only to keep himself from getting too optimistic. When it comes to the Olympiad, Haymitch knows only disappointment. But still, she has to ask. "Did they tell you that for certain, or is that just a hunch?"

"Gamemakers like dramatics and lofty promises, Maysi," he replies, dipping his pinkie finger into the simmering stew, "not hard work and discipline. I'm not their guy."

Maysilee accepts this, and ghosts her lips across her husband's lightly before pointing him towards the cabinet that houses the flatware. "Set the table and rangle the kiddos, Mr. Hard-Work-and-Discipline. We need to get them fed properly before everyone else arrives."

Haymitch swears under his breath. He's completely forgotten about the damned costume party that night.

* * *

He's avoiding the throngs of guests by playing an air-hockey game in the basement with his son, Thatcher, when Maysilee tromps down the stairs to tell him he's got a phone call from the Capitol. He takes the call in his office, and from what Maysilee can overhear, it's about what he expected. She steps in when she hears the phone placed back on the cradle and nods her head at him.

"What'd they say?" Maysilee asks tentatively.

Haymitch looks genuinely perplexed as he says, "They, ah…gave me the job."

This is enough to make Maysilee turn into a grinning, blithering idiot, if only because it's actually enough to make Haymitch smile. She launches herself into Haymitch's arms and kisses him soundly in congratulations, just before scowling at him as he reaches past her for the phone again. "What the…"

"Gotta get in touch with Cinna and Katniss.… Gonna need them with me on this," he says resolutely.

"Haymitch, it's only June! They're not gonna want to even start looking at players until…"

"It's my team. They start looking at players when I say so. And I'm making that call for next week."

"Next week? We're supposed to go on vacation in July…"

Haymitch shakes his head. "Maysi, I'm sorry. But the Olympiad is in February, and it seems like a long way off now, but… I gotta get a team together from scratch. It's—look, I need you with me on this, too, alright?"

His grey eyes implore her, and she doesn't know how she can possibly say no. This team is Haymitch's dream. It's been Haymitch's dream for twenty years. So she nods and excuses herself back to the party to enjoy herself before having to break it to the children their vacation is officially canceled, all so Papa can train a team of hockey players for an Olympiad medal they most likely have no chance of winning.

* * *

The boys tromp off the buses from the train station with arms laden with gear—bags cocker-bock full of pads, helmets, and the gentle L-curve of wooden sticks poking out the ends. Most have never been in the Capitol before, let alone seen the grandiose Training Center, so a few pause to drink in the imposing sight before pushing their way into the serpentine lines for sign-up.

"Name? Home District? District team? Position?" the coordinators ask.

"Nick Cato. Two. One. Defense."

"Joseph Marvel. One and One. Left wing."

"Martin Thresh. Eleven. Eight. Defense."

"Gale Hawthorne. Twelve and Twelve. Right wing."

The coordinators wish each boy luck, and wave them through to the locker rooms. Peeta Mellark is just setting down his own bag when he spies Finnick Odair, his teammate from a couple of years back before they each traded back to their original clubs, and elbows him lightly in the ribs.

"What's up, you sieve?" Peeta jokes. Finnick flashes a familiar grin, but it's not quite the same carefree grin he's always been able to sport.

"Just checking out who we're playing with. You actually think you're up to Abernathy's snuff?"

"Played for him for two years," Peeta shrugs. "How's the roster looking?"

"Looking like a lot of guys from the Careers and Tribs," Finnick says with a shrug.

Peeta whistles lowly. "Yeeeeah. That's gonna work."

* * *

The slice of skates cutting across clean ice, the hard thwack of bodies being checked into boards, the ping of pucks hitting the goal posts, and various hollers of "Atta, boy!" and "You call that a wrister?" echo through the Training Center. The Gamemakers mill about, periodically thumping the glass to get a player's attention so he'll turn around and show the number emblazoned on his back, but otherwise they say little and simply watch. Every single skater on the ice is being closely evaluated, critiqued for everything from their stick handling to their posture as they line up a shot. The boys in front of the goal posts have it especially hard, knowing each puck they let past their glove is one more potential tick in their negative column, while being a plus in the positive for whichever boy launched the puck off their stick.

Cinna Patrick and Katniss Everdeen tromp up the stairs to the viewing deck, where Haymitch is crouched over a desk with his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Cinna bumps the man gently with his elbow, and they take seats on either side of him.

"I'm clearing Mike Darius for non-contact drills. It's just a sprain; shouldn't be but a day or two before he's back in action," Katniss tells the coaches, ticking off the boy's name in her small black notebook she catalogues all the player's maladies. She'd picked up the habit from her mother, a nurse back in Twelve. Ever since taking over as Haymitch's team medic, it's helped her track which player's likely to go down next, and from what cause.

"Good, good," Haymitch grunts, not looking up from the paper on the desk in front of him.

"The boys are looking good on the whole, 'Mitch," Cinna says. "No scraps, no bickering; all of 'em seem content enough to just play."

"Doubt that'll stay that way, but it's a good start. Gonna need you to stick close to 'em, Cinna. Keep 'em in line and deal with the little issues, and just bring me the big 'uns. Sound alright to you?" Haymitch says.

Cinna nods, "Sure thing. I appreciate this opportunity, coaching under you…"

"You were a damn fine player, Cinna. You'll be a damn fine coach," Haymitch mutters.

Cinna and Katniss exchange a look, and she silently communicates to him that, coming from Haymitch Abernathy, that's about as high-praise as one could expect.

"Take a look at this," Haymitch says, scooting his chair back and tapping the piece of paper he'd been studying. He begins pacing the room as he continues, "Any of these boys, save for Darius, got any injuries I need to know about, Katniss?"

Katniss scans the list and shakes her head. "Nope. They're all in good shape."

"Good. 'Cause this is my team," Haymitch says, his knees creaking as he gets out of his chair and saunters towards the door.

"The team? As in, the team we're taking to the Games?" Cinna says, shock heavy in his voice.

"Well, save for a couple of spares we'll need to cut before opening ceremonies to get down to 20, yeah." Haymitch grumbles.

"Haymitch, this is just the first day of trials. There's a whole week of training left… The Gamemakers are gonna be furious…" Katniss warns.

"This is my team," Haymitch says. There's no room in his tone for variance.

"But you're missing some of the best players… And you've got Odair in as goaltender? His game has been off ever since his grandmother died," Cinna protests.

"Ain't looking for the best players. I'm looking for the right players," Haymitch replies. "And as for Odair… You clearly never saw the kid when his game is on."

Cinna and Katniss are speechless, but Haymitch is resolute. "Let 'em finish up their pass plays and then gather 'em all in the bleachers. I'll talk to 'em after you've dismissed the ones not on that list." With that, Haymitch is gone, leaving his assistant and his medic alone to gape at one another.

"Plutarch is gonna be pissed," Cinna says, shaking his head.

"Yeah, well… He was the one who gave Haymitch this gig. They should have known what they were getting themselves into." Katniss says, though she can't help but wonder if Haymitch has finally lost his damn mind.

* * *

All 100-odd boys sit in the bleachers, fingers crossed and knees jiggling with nerves as Cinna calls out the names. 24 of them, to be exact. A few of the boys grin cockily when they hear their last names fall from Cinna's lips, while others let out relieved breaths when they hear theirs, or disappointed groans when, as the list dwindles, theirs is not amongst them.

"That's the team for now. Everyone else—we thank you for volunteering," Cinna says sympathetically. All but the 24 called get to their feet, and shuffle out of the bleachers on their way to the locker room to collect their things and nurse their wounded pride. The rest turn to their comrades and congratulate one another with handshakes and friendly cuffs on the back of heads until Haymitch Abernathy appears from nowhere, and silences them all with a single clearing of his throat.

"I wouldn't be quite so gleeful, gents," Haymitch says tersely. "'Cause those are the fellas getting off easy."

That sentence alone is enough to take the wind out of a few of the boy's sails.

"Official Olympiad rules say that we're a team of 20 by the opening ceremonies, so four of ya are heading back to your Districts, not to the Games. Who those four are is entirely up to you. You give me 110%, you'll make my decision to keep you easy. You give less, you'll be one of the four, simple as that."

Haymitch walks behind Cinna and Katniss, and places a hand on either of their shoulders. He nods between them, and says with finality. "I'll be your coach, and your mentor if you really need one. What I'm not is your friend—you need a friend, talk to Cinna or Doc Everdeen…though you probably won't get too far with her, either."

Katniss scowls at him pointedly as he saunters off, then looks at the group of boys. She sees them all continue to exchange nervous glances, and more than a couple mutter things akin to "Are you fucking serious?" and "That guy for real?". Ever briefly, her eyes meet a pair of nervously darting azure irises—she tries to give Peeta Mellark a congratulatory, relaxing smile, but all he seems to be able to return is a small grimmace-grin that doesn't reach his eyes. She can't exactly blame him—she's never known Haymitch to speak that way to players, either.

"Well, if 'Mitch won't say it boys, I will," Cinna says. "Congratulations. This is an honor I know each of you can live up to, so don't panic. Katniss and I… We'll help you best we can to make a good impression."

* * *

Peeta and Finnick join Gale Hawthorne, Thom Ramsey, Mike Darius, and Martin Thresh at the high top bar at the Rose Garden, and nurse tall glasses of ale and mini shots of white liquor. When the booming voices of Nick Cato, Joseph Marvel, and Mark Gloss resound across the room, Gale turns and sneers derisively.

"Let it go, Gale," Peeta warns.

"I'll let it go alright," Gale spits back. "First thing tomorrow, at practice."

"Wait, what's up?" Thresh asks, looking over at the boys from the Career clubs as they trade high-fives for bulls-eyes on the dartboard and down shots of their own.

"Hawthorne has some unfinished business with Marv over there," Thom says with a grin before Peeta shoots him another terse look.

"I said let it go," Peeta repeats.

Gale narrows his eyes at Peeta and bites back, "That pansy-ass over there cheap shots me and now 'Mitch wants me to smile and pretend I don't hate his damn guts? He cost us the Districts championship game—how can you just forget that and sit in the same room with him with a smile on your face?"

"We were all throwing cheap shots that night," Peeta sneers. "None of us were playing like heroes, Gale. And like as not, he's our teammate now. What's more important to you: a little bit of payback, or a proper shot at an Olympiad medal?"

Gale slams down his shot glass and shakes his head. "Figured you'd be on my side of this, Peet," he sneers. "Going to my room. See you boys in the morning."

"Shit. No wonder he gets so many damn penalty minutes," Thresh says with a shake of his head.

"He gets hot under the collar. He'll get over it," Peeta says, even though he's not entirely convinced.

* * *

The hit comes out of nowhere, and Marvel doubles over, his helmet flush with the ice and groans as he struggles to catch his breath. Gale skates backwards with a cheeky grin on his face. A few scattered voices from the other boys on the ice call out in support of Gale, laughing jovially over the solid hit. Cato and Gloss kneel next to their teammate, who gathers up the strength to get back on his skates and stares daggers at Gale. Like the crack of a whip, Marvel's gloves scatter to the ice and he lunges for him, who sheds his own as soon as Marvel's fist cracks hard against his jaw.

Cinna skates forward to separate the tussling players, but Haymitch shakes his head gravely, indicating the fight should go on for as long as it takes. The pair are evenly matched in upper body strength and balance, and by the time a splash of each player's blood hits the ice and they are finally pulled apart, both have split lips and decent shiners.

"Well, that was impressive, gentlemen," Haymitch bellows after Philip Brutus and Peeta have firm grips on the backs of each fighter's practice jersey. "For a second, I forgot the pair of you were hockey players and not a pair of mutts trying to fuck a football."

None of the assembled players laugh, not with the intense gravity of Haymitch's voice.

"Whatcha think, Cinna? These punks look like hockey players to you?" Haymitch continues.

"Not at all, 'Mitch," Cinna says without missing a beat.

"Damn straight they don't. But trust me, gentlemen—by the time the 20 of you that make my final cut get on the train to the Games, all of you will be the hockey players I want you to be. You'll do what I tell you when I tell you. And you'll knock off this old rivalry crap because it's done. It's over. You're a team, and you'll goddamn well act like one, because these Games are gonna be different. You get me, Marv?"

"Yeah," Marvel says, spitting a stream of blood onto the ice at his feet.

"You understand me, Marvel?" Haymitch intones again, and the boy stands up an inch taller.

"Yes, sir, Coach," Marvel corrects.

Haymitch skates in a circle for a moment, pondering his next move before nodding his head at Gale.

"Start us off with some introductions, Galey. Who y'are, who you play for; might as well get the 'get-to-know-you' shit outta the way here and now."

Gale shrugs. "Gale Hawthorne. District Twelve. Play for you in Twelve, Coach."

Haymitch nods at Marvel a second later.

"Joseph Marvel. From and play for District One."

Haymitch skates by another player standing off to the side and taps the curve of his stick against the ice in front of him. The boy removes his helmet and runs a hand through his hair.

"Ah, Beetee Latier. District Three. I'm, um, from wherever ain't gonna get me a punch in the nose."

Haymitch smiles. Sort of. It's as much of a smile as any of his players can ever expect out of the man.

"Hawthorne and Marvel just bought you all 10 Mitchies. Any of my Twelve players want to explain 'em to those who ain't in the know?"

Gale, Peeta, Thom, and Darius all groan, along with a handful of other boys who skate to the far goal line. Cinna gestures to the stragglers that they should follow suit.

"Goal line to blue line and back. Goal line to far blue line and back. Goal line to goal line and back. You take longer than 60 seconds from Cinna's whistle, and you're just wasting my time. Send 'em, Cinna," Haymitch says gruffly.

A short blast of a whistle sends 24 pairs of skates in motion up and down the ice. Nine blasts later, and most of the boys are doubled over, clutching at stitches in their sides and gulping down mouthfuls of water. Gale's right eye has nearly swollen shut, and Marvel's lip is gushing blood. Haymitch jerks his thumb towards the locker room.

"Go get your faces patched up and get back on the ice. We got more pass plays to run," Haymitch says to the pair, who skate off, reluctantly together, towards the locker room.

* * *

Katniss drains the remnants of a bottle of numbing agent into the well of a syringe before plunging it deep into Marvel's swollen lip. The boy whines, but Katniss just shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

"I can stitch you up with or without the drugs, your choice," she says flatly, wielding a needle and thread and fixing three tiny stitches into the slit lip before the boy can even blink.

"I thought chicks were supposed to be gentler with those things. Ain't that the draw of having a girl as our team medic?" Marvel mutters.

From where he sits with an ice pack over his puffy eye, Gale shakes his head. Knowing Katniss, he almost decides to warn Marvel not to carry on like that —but letting him dig his own grave with her seems to be the only kind of justice as he can dish out now that Haymitch has nipped their on-ice squabbles in the bud.

"How about it, Sweetheart?" Marvel says, his speech beginning to slur comically with the numbing agent spreading through the lower half of his face. "Take you out for a drink tonight so you can be seen on the arm of the top scoring District One player the last two seasons running? Bet these Capitolites would go nuts for a sight like tha—"

Marvel is cut off when, like the strike of snake, Katniss grasps the needle and pull the plunger out, filling the well with little more than air before pressing it firmly against the boy's jugular vein, taking care not to break the skin. When he catches the death glare in Katniss's quicksilver eyes, Marvel gulps out of pure shock.

"I'm gonna say this once, Marvel, and I'll trust you to pass it on to the rest of this lot that don't already know me: I don't date hockey players. I don't flirt with hockey players, and I really don't take kindly to hockey players checking out my ass while I'm patching up you up 'cause you couldn't keep your fists to yourselves. You want me to continue treating you like actual living humans and not the cadavers I operated on in school? Then treat me with respect. And don't fucking call me a 'chick'," she says, her deeply Twelve-accented voice low and ominous. Marvel's tongue darts out to wet his lips before giving her a tiny nod of understanding.

Gale's eyes are wide with surprise when Katniss turns back around impassively and grabs the needle and stitching wire, as if she hadn't just threatened to give his teammate an air embolism. That's new, even for her. Without turning away from her work, Katniss calls over her shoulder to Marvel, "There are little bubble packs of aspirin in that cupboard to your left. Take two of 'em for the pain and then head back out; you're clear to finish practice so long as you ice your jaw afterwards."

Marvel knows better than to argue. He discards the used ice pack and swallows two little white pills quickly before sauntering back towards the ice. In the long passageway, he nearly bumps right into Peeta, who gives him a casual nod.

"Coach wanted me to see what's taking you two so long. Better get out there quick, Marv," Peeta says, jerking his head over his shoulder.

Marvel secures his helmet on his head and nods in return. "Dude, our fucking team doc? She's crazy. Like psychotic, man," Marvel mutters conspiratorially.

Peeta side eyes him. He knows Katniss well, and crazy is hardly a word he'd use to describe her. There are plenty of words he would use instead, but crazy? Not at all.

"Seriously! She just tried to kill me!" Marvel continues, already getting that Peeta doesn't believe him.

"Yeah, well… Sure she had her reasons." Peeta says with a cheeky wink. In spite of himself, Marvel cracks a split-lip smile, and knocks Peeta on the head playfully before continuing back onto the ice while Peeta presses into the locker room to see what the hold up with Gale is.

It's not that Peeta's necessarily attracted to Katniss or anything. But he is something of a sucker for a girl with long dark hair and a good singing voice, both of which Katniss has in spades. And there is something about her scowl, deep set in her face and unforgiving, maybe even a little lethal, that sends his heart, amongst other things, swelling just a bit. So when he glances at her over Gale's shoulder as she finishes stitching up the lash over his cheekbone, he finds himself smiling at her a bit shyly as he asks if Gale'll be much longer.

"Nope, all done. Keep your paws to yourself, Gale," Katniss says seriously.

"Will do, Catnip," Gale says with a roguish smile, and thumps Peeta on the shoulder as he saunters back towards the ice.

"Anything wrong with you, Peeta?" Katniss asks curiously, the corners of her mouth lifting ever-so-slightly. Peeta tries not to read too much into it, and shakes his head.

"No, ah, I'm all good, Katniss," he says, and turns to leave. He glances over his shoulder at her as he stalks off, and is patently surprised when he sees her looking out after him for the briefest of seconds before gathering up the medical waste in front of her and pitching it in the biohazard pail.

It's really not like he's attracted to her—but he can't help but notice she's wearing her hair in two braids today, instead of the one that usually hangs over her left shoulder. And he really is a sucker for hair that long, glossy, and dark.

* * *

**A/N: This story was originally written for _Prompts in Panem _(Seven Deadly Sins - Pride) back in September, albeit in a very different form, with encouragement from my dear friend _Court81981. _As a fellow hockey lover, I emailed her one day asking, "What would you think of an Everlark crossover with the movie _Miracle_?" and she said, "Do it." So for that reason, for being such an amazing friend and beta, and also because her Rangers beat the tar out of my Avalanche about a month back, this story is all for you, Court. :)**

**Thanks a million times over to _sohypothetically_ for beta-ing this one for me, and for being such a great encouragement when I have trouble pulling the trigger on a story, and to Ro Nordmann for another gorgeous banner. **

**This fic will be told in three or four parts, and will chronicle more or less the entirety of _Miracle_ - which if you haven't watched, get on it, because it's an incredible movie! - with a healthy dose of Everlark thrown in. It's 'M' for a reason. ;) I've definitely never written a story quite like this before, so any and all feedback you lovely readers might have for me will be so very, very much appreciated!**

**As always, I'm baronesskika over on Tumblr if you'd like to say hi.**

**Happy reading!  
**


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